


Cliffs

by Elizabeth Rowandale (RowanD)



Category: Broadchurch, The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst and Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 07:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14039193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanD/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Rowandale
Summary: In the aftermath of the events in the series finale, Stella finds herself reaching out to an old lover who now makes his home in Broadchurch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from either of these shows. I borrow them only with love.
> 
> Author's Note: I've deliberately fudged the syncing up of the timelines a bit. Let's just all pretend that the end of Season 3 of "Broadchurch" happened just before the end of Season 3 of "The Fall", shall we? Many thanks.
> 
> In 25 years of fanfic I have never written a crossover fic before and, honestly, I never thought I would. Never say never is a saying for a reason.:) This story is completed and the three chapters will be posted as I get them formatted.

Copyright (c) 2018

 

The phone call comes without preamble. He is walking home after a few drinks at the local, listening to the silence of the late hour, the perpetual rustle of the sea in this place that has become dangerously like home. The name comes up on his screen, too bright in the stark darkness. 'Stella Gibson.' He hasn't seen that name on his phone in a very long time. But, he picks up. Of course, he picks up.

"Hardy," he answers. He doesn't say her name, because he has been in this business too long with too many nasty shocks and somewhere in the back of his mind he's running scenarios of kidnappers grabbing her phone or emergency services looking for next of kin.

"Alec? Hi. It's Stella." The voice is soft and throaty and so distinctively Stella it sends an electric thrill through his limbs. He wasn't sure she would still have the same effect on him she once had. Apparently, this is not a concern. Or perhaps it is of great concern.

"Stella. There's a voice from the great deep blue. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The line is silent for a moment and he briefly wonders if they have lost the connection, here where he lives on the edge of the world. But then she says, "I, uh...I was wondering...are you still down in Broadchurch?"

There's hesitation in her words. Not characteristic of Stella Gibson and her self-assertive approach to life. She can be quiet, speak slowly, speak carefully, but she is not hesitant. Hardy registers the soft alarm bell at the back of his skull, but he responds to her question as though her request were comfortable and conversational.

"I am, indeed, in Broadchurch. Our little slice of coastal heaven." He lets her hear the sarcasm in his voice and he swears he hears the whisper of an exhale on a smile. "What about you?" he prompts. "From what I've seen in the papers you've been keeping yourself properly busy in Belfast."

"Yes. You could say that. I've hardly had a moment to breathe, much less sleep. But I'm back in London. Night before last."

He has read of the rather horrifying ending to her case. The hunt for the Belfast Strangler has been a subject of avid and morbid interest to the reading and viewing public for some time now. Stella found her killer, but Spector killed himself in custody, leaving a fair amount of carnage in his wake. Ugly and hard ending to a noble quest by the law enforcement team.

"I'm glad to hear it. You must be grateful to be home."

"I am. I've missed it. Belfast can be a beautiful place."

"But…"

"But I'm a stranger there."

He nods, though she can't see it. Looks out across the dim cliffs of this place where he has felt like a mis-shot marble for such a long time. "I can understand that," he says simply.

She is quiet for another moment and he hears a bit of roar and interference and he guesses that she is driving.

"Alec…," she says at last, "may I be direct with you?"

"Aren't you always?"

"Not always." Her words are soft, accessible. He hears her clear her throat and there it is again, that hesitation, that tension so unlike Stella. But when she does speak, her words are firm and clear. "I'd like to see you," she says. "I've driven down to Dorset, I'm not far now. Are you...available?"

The question leaves many interpretations (as so many of her questions do). Is he available to meet? Is he available for her? Is he... _available_? Alec starts wishing he hadn't had those drinks. One requires the best of one's wits to deal with Stella Gibson. "Well, I was just heading back from the pub after a long day at work, so I can't promise I'm the soul of wit at the moment, but...yeah, I'm here."

"You're not drunk," she says simply. "I'd hear it."

"Would you now?" He offers the challenge, but he knows she's right.

"Text me the address," is all she says.

She disconnects the call.

Hardy's steps slow to a halt, the lights of his own porch now visible in the near distance, and he stares for a long moment at the quiet phone. "Stella Gibson," he whispers. "Bloody hell."

*****

Hardy is unusually grateful that his daughter chose this night to spend at the home of her friend after an evening out at the movies. Stella Gibson isn't someone who has thus far been a part of the girl's life. The time Alec and Stella spent together came in the first months or years (timelines are never linear with Stella) after the disintegration of Hardy's marriage, and he had been wholly unprepared to introduce the concept of her father "dating" into the young girl's life. Stella had once or twice used the term "rebound woman" for herself. But he knew better and so did she. Stella was nothing if not an expert at finding ways to keep her distance from those who might get beneath her skin. She had many tools in her arsenal, this had been her chosen weapon with him.

They never exactly ended things. They merely went their separate ways, recognizing the tangle of issues in which they were ensnared, both separately and apart. Stella is not the type of woman one possesses. But he likes to think he touched her on a level rarely allowed. Some days he sees this as asinine self-delusion on his part and convinces himself he was little more to her than a passing amusement. Tonight, he is wary. There is vulnerability in her voice, and he has no idea where he stands.

His heart catches in his throat when he hears the roar of a motor pulling up his drive.

*****

The road has been hypnotic, the endless and floating bubble of the world formed by her car's headlamps. It has been a while since she drove this far out from the city. She has forgotten just how far apart the street lights can be. She finds herself remembering childhood rides in the back seat of the car, lying on the bench seat, watching the impossible number of stars in the night sky as her father drove them home from a week at her grandmother's place by the sea. 

She really didn't mean to do this tonight. She had been swamped with work all day, trying to get all she could finished before the weekend. Evening at least saw her back at her house, take-away and fresh wine in hand, with every intention of a comfortable evening at home. Normally, Stella really does enjoy living alone. She likes her patterns, her comforts, the freedom and control. But the silence started eating away at her tonight. Her jaw still hurt when she tried to eat. And she knows she is a little numb after the trauma she weathered, still a little shaky beneath the surface. She hasn't truly dealt. Her best friend is out of town with her husband or Stella might have suggested a girls night out for drinks. 

Instead, she found herself debating calling Alec Hardy, surprised by how her instincts pulled her so simply and so strongly toward him on this of all nights. There are a lot of things she hasn't dealt with.

Stella never really decided to call. She got behind the wheel just to get out of the house, to enjoy her own car again, feel the motion and life around her. And her drive took her here, to Dorset, on a whim and wild chance. For all she knew, Hardy could have been in the south of France at the moment, and she would have been searching about for an open petrol station near midnight in hopes of getting herself back to London.

But she did call, and he did answer, and now she is looking for landmarks in the dark as her GPS fails her at the outskirts of this simple grid of a town.

At last she finds his little house by the sea. She pulls to a halt and turns off her car. She can make out a shadow as someone moves past the closed blinds. A fluttering of butterflies quivers through her stomach. It has been a while. And this is Alec. She gives a cursory look at herself in the visor mirror. Does what she can to soften the wear of her day. Then she gets out of the car.

He opens the door only seconds after the short rap of her knuckles. He must have heard her come up the drive.

And there he is, standing in front of her, leaning on the edge of the door, profile lit by the warm glow of his living room lamps. He looks healthy and bright and entirely the Alec she remembers in her mind. Perhaps better. He's dressed in dark slacks and a striped shirt unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal his lean forearms. There is a casual grace to Alec Hardy, a sensuality to the way he moves. All lanky limbs and sharp edges, but with an underlying power and determination that sends shivers down her spine when she gets too close.

Stella looks up at him, aware of his imposing height even in her three inch heels. She gives him a gentle, closed-lipped smile, infusing warmth into her gaze.

He offers a quirky and flirtatious grin in return and says in a deliberate over-exaggeration of his Scottish drawl, "DSI Gibson."

"Alec Hardy," she replies, letting the name roll deliciously over her tongue.

Then he holds out an arm and steps forward and he is suddenly all around her, his scent, his warmth, his vibrations, and he leans down and places a tender kiss on her right cheek, and she realizes in a rush how long it's been since she has been touched by someone who really knows her. Someone who...cares...for her. She has to resist the urge to climb into his arms and hold on.

She manages a friendly smile and a squeeze of his forearm. "It's good to see you," she says.

He pulls at her wrist and steps back. "Come on. Come on in."

She takes in her surroundings as Alec closes the door behind her, squinting a little in the brighter light. It's a cozy home. He's given it more attention than she might have expected. Decorated in warm colors and soft elegance. She finds herself wondering if he's only lived here alone.

"You found the place all right, then? It can be obscure." He touches her shoulders, the collar of her trench coat, offering to take it.

She shrugs free of the coat, the liner sliding easily over the sleeves of her silk blouse. "It was. But I found it. You look good," she says, as he steps around her to face her once again, coat hung in the small closet by the door. She rests her hands on the backs of her hips, needing something to ground to.

His eyes move over her figure, her straight skirt and heels, her elegant blouse, as though he fully intends to return her compliment, but then he sees it, and her stomach hurts and she wants to melt into the floor or maybe just turn and walk out the door and drive all the way back to London.

His gaze is on her left temple, moving over the bruises down the side of her face like probing fingers. "Well, the rest of you looks amazing, as always, but that certainly looks nasty. What happened?"

Stella shakes her head. "It's nearly healed now. My jaw, it's still...tender...but, it's all right."

"What happened?" he repeats, eyes narrowed, and the weight of his gaze can be inescapable.

She draws a short breath through her nose, feels the tendons in her throat stiffen. She can't quite bring herself to speak, but she sees the moment he gets it. She has to look away. "Aw, bloody hell, Stella. He didn't...Did Spector do that to you?"

She falls quiet for a moment, her gaze somewhere to the side of his shoe. Then she manages to say carefully, "There was...an incident...during his final interrogation. Can we not--"

"He attacked you?"

"We were standing to leave the room. The other officer was ahead of me. Spector wasn't cuffed, and… Yes."

"How the hell does that happen?"

She sighs heavily, feels like a suspect under interrogation and suddenly harbors a deep sympathy for anyone who has been on the wrong side of the table with Alec Hardy. But she knows his intensity now is born of nothing but concern. "The other officer was injured as well…," she offered. "His arm was broken when he attempted to stop Spector."

"How bad?"

"The break?"

"You, Stella."

She shakes her head.

"How bad?" His words cut through illusion and leave her feeling naked and defenseless in his foyer.

"A small fracture to my jaw," she recites. "Bruises. No internal bleeding. No concussion. I was kept overnight and released."

"Christ. Why didn't you phone sooner?"

"We're not together, Alec."

"Does that matter?"

That catches her off guard, and she looks up and meets the concentrated sincerity in his gaze and it threatens to unravel her. She draws a shaky breath and her eyes fill with tears. She exhales heavily through her nose, attempting to stabilize. She doesn't speak.

And he gets it. He fucking gets it, and she remembers in a moment why she is so afraid of Alec Hardy and why she can't quite let him go. She wonders if maybe they are a little more together than she realized. "Come on," he says simply. "Let me make you some tea."

"Thank you," she whispers, and he moves ahead of her toward the kitchen. "Restroom's that way, if you need it." He gestures over his shoulder and disappears around a corner.

*****

He finds her standing at his front picture window when he brings her the steaming mug of tea. She cups the warm porcelain in her hands, seems genuinely grateful. "Thank you," she whispers.

She doesn't ask what tea he has brought her, if there is cream or sugar. Either she trusts him to remember her preferences, or she is too fatigued to care.

"Your home is lovely," she says.

He shrugs. "I needed a bit more space. Daisy's living here, now."

She looks up at him, eyebrows lifted, genuinely interested. "Your daughter's here?"

"Well, not this second. She's staying with a friend tonight. But normally, yes."

"Alec, that's wonderful. I mean...is everything all right? With her mother?"

"Yeah, yeah, they just...she wanted a change of scene. It was bumpy for a while, but...I think we're working it out."

Stella nods, takes a test sip of her tea. "That's really good news. I'm happy for you."

He shrugs, sits back on the arm of his couch. "I hope I'm getting it right."

"You love her. You'd do anything to protect her. That's right enough."

"How old were you, again, when you lost your dad?"

"Fourteen."

He shakes his head. "Younger than Daisy, then. Funny, isn't it? You look at a fourteen-year-old child now, and they look so much younger than you thought you were at fourteen."

Stella gives a dry laugh. "That's certainly true." She takes a bigger sip of the tea, seems to take in its warmth as it trails down her throat, and he fleetingly imagines he can see a flush down her chest. He has seen that flushed skin before.

"So how have you been otherwise, hmm? Truly?"

Alec looks out the window, picking out a bit of light over the water. A small boat in the distance. "Not bad," he says, brushing back his unruly hair and feeling like he should have cleaned up a bit more for her. He's fallen out of the habit of caring. "This place grows on you. But I think I may have done some good here."

"I'm certain you have." She is quiet for a beat, then, "I heard about Sandbrook. That you did it. You can tell me, when you're ready. If you want."

Because, of course, she would be the one he would tell. She was the only soul he had told at the time, about his wife, about what he had chosen to hide. The only person who had been beside him when he woke from a nightmare of those girls, dead in his arms, crying out to him in their desperation for justice, for life. The only one who had wrapped her arms around him as he knelt on his bedroom floor, his face pressed into her belly, her fingers tangling into his hair, sheltering him as he fell apart beneath her touch. Calm and steady and tender in her comforts. The only one who had never thought he was at fault. Stella.

"Later," he says into his tea, and Stella nods, accepting and without resentment. That is the tangle of Stella Gibson in a nutshell. She is both the most complex enigma of a woman he has ever tried to puzzle apart and the one who makes him feel like he makes the most sense he ever has.

They exchange more pleasantries that get lost in the haze in his mind as he soaks up the very real presence of this woman back in his living room and his life. They say something about procedural differences between Belfast and The Met and something about protocol in Broadchurch and small town politics. He imagines he finds a few new lines around her brilliant eyes, a slightly lighter shade to her hair. She has let it grow longer and he likes it. It suits her; elegant and classy.

Not much more time passes before Stella sets down her tea cup and drifts closer to him. He stands from the back of the couch, because height is the only advantage he has ever had over Stella Gibson and he sure as hell needs something to keep hold of tonight. She stands in his space, gazing up at him with eyes that take in so much it's like she is grazing over his soul. Even these few feet, mere inches of change in proximity have a profound impact; she shifts the chemistry of his world. Her presence, her scent, her very womanhood shimmer off of her and tangle up with his own chemical make-up, changing him on a fundamental level when he breathes her air.

"I've missed you, Alec," she whispers, and in the threads of her voice are a dozen remembered nights. Thigh-high stockings and tight skirts, gold eye shadow and black lingerie and a rhythm of breath that pulses in his dreams.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and it's true.

"It's late." She rests a light hand on his hip. If she lets her thumb stray once more, he will have to turn away to maintain discretion. "I invited myself," she says. "Should I go? Find somewhere to stay tonight?"

He shakes his head. "Of course, not. You're exhausted. You'll stay here."

The briefest ghost of a smile twitches her lips. "You're certain?"

"I am."

Her breath grows deeper. Her gaze is toying dangerously with his lips and his mouth feels dry.

Her free hand reaches for his other hip, thumb hooking a little possessively through his belt loop.

She tilts her head back, waits just a moment to give him the chance to pull away, and he tries to, God, he tries to, but she moves in and captures his mouth with hers and for a brief dizzying moment the taste of Stella Gibson is all he knows or wants to know.

He is the one to break the kiss and the loss is like dropping a last stair step you've forgotten existed. "No," he manages. Firm, though not as firm as he intended. "I want you to stay, but if you stay it can't be like that."

A slight pained expression twitches her brow, and it physically hurts him to see it. "Why? You don't want this, anymore? Is there someone…?"

He shakes his head, hard and clear. "It's not about that. And maybe I do, want this, in fact I'm fairly certain you know I do. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. We'll face that later. But that's not for tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because, I know you use sex as a surrogate comfort, Stella Gibson. A way to borrow some intimacy, some connection, when you need it, but still keep the person at arm's length. But that's not who I want to be for you. You came here, I hope, because I'm your friend, because you can trust me. I'm fairly certain you got the crap beaten out of you, literally and metaphorically, by this case, and any bloody half decent human would need a friend after that. If you stay, that's what I'm going to be to you, first and foremost."

Her breath has accelerated, chest visibly rising and falling as he speaks. She drops one hand from his hip, and for a moment he isn't certain if she is angry, defiant, offended, or simply resigned. But then she closes her eyes, moonlight from the front window glazing her pale skin as she lets her head fall slightly to one side She tenses her jaw. She's so beautiful in the quiet blue light. In any light. Without a word, Stella hedges closer and rests her forehead against his chin. His hand settles on her back and he finds her trembling.

"Stay?" he asks simply.

"Yes," she breathes. The almost child-like pitch to her voice breaks his heart.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Copyright (c) 2018

They stand together for a while, listening to the quiet, readjusting to this, to them, to the rhythm and comfort in Stella and Alec. His hand has moved to cradle the back of her head and she is pliant and accepting of the comforting touch.

His free hand glides down her left side, and she sucks in a sharp breath. It's not arousal, it's pain, and that is when he realizes there is more.

"Let me see."

She shakes her head, looks at the floor and pulls a few inches from him. "No, it's...you don't need to see that."

"He did this?"

"It's healing," she says.

"Let me see. I think you should let me."

"Why?"

"Has anybody seen the bruises since it happened to you? Aside from you and your doctor?"

She frowns at him. "No. Only on my face."

He wants to touch her cheek, trace the residue of her injuries, but he knows he will gain more ground if he maintains the small distance she has put between them. Her right hand still rests on his hip so she hasn't let go of the thread. He speaks slowly and deliberately. "Someone who cares about you...should see the scope of what he did to you, before it can't be seen, anymore. Before it's all on the inside. You shouldn't have to be the only one who knows."

Her inhale is slow and tremulous. Goddamn, this monster of a man has done far more damage than Alec is ever going to see on her skin.

The room is shimmering with electric tension for an endless moment. Then without a word, Stella begins to unbutton her blouse. She tugs the tails free of her skirt and lets the silk fall open. With graceful fingers, she unzips her skirt a few inches, letting it flap down her left side. She holds back the tail of her blouse, gaze low and off to her right.

Alec takes this gift with all the reverence and weight it deserves.

He turns her slightly into the light with a directing touch to her shoulder and hip, and she complies without resistance, like it's clinical, like he's a doctor. The landscape of her smooth skin he remembers so well is mottled and marked with three massive and deep blue bruises, merging together into an ugly smear of darkness around her side, up her rib cage and down toward her hip. Bloody hell. Every movement of every hour must be hurting her. He has bruised ribs before, there is no hell quite like it. There is an intimacy to the area of the injury as well. Kicking a creature in its soft underbelly is a profound brand of violation, an injury whose effects ripple outward like stone waves on a pond.

"Christ, Stella. This is fucking horrible."

"Nothing broken," she whispers.

And he is sure this is the clearest lie she has spoken all night.

*****

Breathe in, breathe out. Turn right, hold back her blouse. One moment to the next, let him see, get it over with, close it off, and move on.

She is doing fine, keeping it neat, clinical. He is a criminal investigator as well, let him assess the evidence of the crime. She is fine, truly, right up until his long fingers caress their way down the painful landscape of her left side. The tenderness incites such a bizarre mixture of comfort and physical pain her defenses melt like ice walls in the sun.

She is back there, on the floor of the interrogation room, and she is fairly certain a part of her has been there every moment since she hit the ground. She feels untethered and vulnerable, standing in the shadows of Alec Hardy's living room. Far from home, in a place she has never been. The air feels too cold, and her clothing too thin, and she is shaking like a leaf, unsheltered in the storm.

She is falling apart in a power suit and heels in a small town on the southern coast.

*****

"I should have been ready," she says.

"Aw, Stella, that's bullshit--"

"I'm trained to defend myself. But I didn't see it coming. And it was so fast and so violent. The first hits were so hard, and the pain so...all consuming… Everything went white, and then I was on the floor. And it was cold. And there was shouting and movement all around me, and I couldn't...I just couldn't… I heard cries and knew someone else had been hurt. But then he was kicking me, before they could stop him, and the pain just burnt through me like a flame, and it seemed like the assault was coming from every direction and I was completely helpless. I couldn't make sense of anything, and…"

He shakes his head decisively, offering steadiness in the face of her uncertainty. "Obviously, none of the other trained personnel in the room were able to contain the situation either. You were up against a level of human violence for which no one was prepared. Being trained to stop a mugger in an alleyway is nothing like this. If he hit you as hard as these bruises and that fracture would imply, you didn't have much of a chance to defend yourself. I'm quite certain no one blames you."

"They don't. Only I do."

He sighs, straightens his spine, and pulls his eyes away from the damage to her side. He lets his fingers linger, featherlight, over the wounds. "Stella...you do know you're allowed to be a bit shattered by this, yes? It's just you and me, here. For God's sake, I know you'll recover. You're strong as hell, woman. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it now."

She nods, but she won't look at him. He reaches out and cradles her cheek and her chin starts to tremble against his hand. It breaks his heart to see her, all light hair and freckled skin and fragile bones. His hurricane of strength caught in an undertow yet fighting so hard to stay afloat. The image of her on the interrogation room floor and Spector kicking at her most tender places, her face bloodied, her ribs….Alec wants to rip Spector's throat out and he is almost sorry the bastard is dead so he can't kill him again.

"Come here," he whispers. He steps closer and Stella draws a sharp inhale, lifts a hand, almost as though she is afraid of his touch, afraid to _be_ touched, and he feels like he is the one being pummeled in the guts. But he sees her consciously tamp down on the reflex and take a step toward him.

He moves slowly, giving her time to accept him, time to trust. He smoothes her hair, cradles her head. He slides his hand beneath her open blouse and urges her, inch by inch, until she's pressed against him. Her fingers come up to take a fistful of his shirt. Her other hand clings to his back and she tucks her face into his shoulder. The length of her trembles against him. When her breath catches, he tightens his hold, wrapping her up like he can shelter her from all that has happened, like he can go back in time and throw himself on top of her in that dank and dingy room, take the blows on his own body instead.

"I've got you," he whispers. It's all he can do.

*****

He puts on a movie and settles her on the couch. She lays down, across his lap, pillowed in the crook of his arm. Her mascara smudges on his skin. They watch the film for a while. He isn't actually following the plot. "I'm sorry, Alec," she says. Shadows of tears still scratch at her voice, though she's stopped shaking. "I haven't called and then...I don't mean to use you when I need you, it--"

"Aw, hush yourself," he says, rubbing at her hip. "If you can't come to your friends when you need them, what bloody good are they?"

"You must have needed someone...some time in these years. I haven't heard from you?"

"Yeah, well, I'm an ass when it comes to communication. You know that."

"Did you want me? Ever?" She is asking about comfort, but her wording sounds like lust, and he knows in Stella's mind sometimes the two are one and the same.

The lights of the television play across her skin. She looks up, but doesn't turn to really see him.

"Did I ever _not_ want you?" he says, because truths fall like ripe fruit when Stella is around.

"I'm sorry," she repeats.

"Hush-up. Watch the movie."

*****

When the film ends they move to the bed. She has taken off her stockings, and she left her blouse half fastened. She brought an overnight bag in from the trunk of her car, but she hasn't touched its contents. She has gone quiet and contemplative, and he is stretched out beside her with his head propped on his hand. He forgot how easy it is to be with Stella and simply not talk.

She lay on her back, staring at the stars through the slanted window above his bed . "He took my dream journal," she says. "He read it. Wrote in it."

"Aw, you're kidding me."

"He sneaked into my room at the hotel. I'd stupidly left my journal there. He taunted me. Dangled my...intimate confessions...like a smug little child. It had to go into evidence, of course, after that."

"Oh, Stella...I'm sorry. That's awful."

"It rather was," she whispers.

Alec thinks maybe this violation is worse than all the others. That it will take the longest to heal.

He hooks his pinky finger with hers. She lets him.

*****

Eventually, she admits she is hungry. She supposes this is a good sign, the will to survive remains strong.

"When was the last time you ate?" Alec asks, and she hears a little of the father in him. She has always wanted to see him with his daughter.

"I brought take-away home, but...I left it in my refrigerator, I never...never ate it. I had some wine."

"Oh, well, that makes it better, then, doesn't it?"

She exhales softly, but doesn't really reply. She should give him more, but heavy malaise is setting in, and she really doesn't have it in her.

"Come on, then," he says. "Let's rustle up some sustenance."

*****

The state of his kitchen seems to surprise her. He shows off a little, proves he's been brushing up on his culinary skills now that he has a daughter to feed on his own. He pulls out the leftovers of the quiche he baked yesterday and heats some for her.

They talk about shallow things. Diet choices, staying in shape for work, the challenges of fitting in proper exercise. She is still swimming. She kept it up in Belfast, she found a good pool.

He tells her he has started running, again. That the beach is a nice place in the early mornings to lose himself in the rhythm of his steps, straighten out his head.

"Can you do that?" she asks, standing at the counter, picking at the last bits of food on her plate. She has mushed each bite ahead with her fork, and he realizes her jaw is still sore. "What about your heart?"

He thumps his chest. "Sound and hearty. Had my surgery. All patched up."

She drops her fork and looks up at him. Her expression of wonder and tenderness and maybe something like gratitude is unfiltered and intense and Hardy is more than a little taken aback. And touched. He had no idea this would mean so much to her.

"You had the surgery?" she half-whispers, asking confirmation with her eyes as much as her words.

He nods. "Yeah. More than a year gone, now."

She takes a step closer and touches her fingers lightly to his chest. She seems to look for words, fail to find them, then she settles on simply, "You didn't tell me…." She moves close and leans against him, ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She softens and sags against him, relaxing as though finally drawing a free breath after timeless tension.

He wraps an easy arm across her back and takes in the moment. He probably should have told her sooner.

*****

They are back on the bed, kitchen cleared, lights low in deference to the increasingly late hour. Hardy sits sprawled lazily on top of the covers, propped against the headboard, still dressed save for his shoes and belt. Stella rests on her back, knees curled to the side, her head resting in Alec's lap. He toys with her hair.

"You really like it up here?" she muses, words a little slurred with exhaustion. Her edges have softened.

"It's grown on me, like I said."

"I never would have thought."

"You and me both. I guess...I'm gettin' old. I rather like the quiet."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Well, it's not as though you were ever particularly fond of people."

"You may have a point."

"What about your co-workers? You have a partner?"

"I do. Miller. Ellie Miller. She's a damned good investigator. Hell of a pain. I quite like her."

Stella gives a soft laugh he feels through his leg. "Would I like her?" she asks.

There is a question. "Yeah. I think you would. You'd like her honesty, her unfiltered sincerity of purpose. Her uncompromising principles. She'd take a while to get used to you, but in the end she'd like you, as well."

"Oh, really? Am I so difficult to accustom oneself to?"

"You kidding me? I'm still working on that one myself."

He means the comment as a playful tease, despite its grain of truth. So, he is caught by surprise when there's the briefest flash of hurt across Stella's expression before she drops her gaze and resets the mask of neutrality.

"Hey." He rests a hand on her midriff, feels the heat of her skin through her thin blouse. "It's not a bad thing."

She takes her time to reply. "Perhaps."

"What are you thinking?"

Another long beat passes. A faint boat horn carries in on the wind, haunting and solitary. "There was...a young officer on the Spector case, Tom Anderson. Excellent policeman. Very strong in the field. He and I became...friendly. He's a good man, but...young. A bit idealistic. As we all were. He attached more meaning to our relationship, I think, than I. Or, a different kind of meaning. I hadn't meant to lead him on at all, just...difference in perspective. But a few months ago, when Spector was shot, Anderson took a bullet as well. He accused me of...being more concerned at the scene with Spector's injuries, than with his."

"And were you?"

"For fuck's sake, Alec."

He shakes his head. "Come on, Stella. I know you didn't have feelings for Spector, not like that. But I know how all-consuming that kind of investigation can be. The focus, the drive, the desperation to make it all come out the way it should. The sheer anger at the universe and at the man. Did that drive eclipse your concern for a man you'd lead to believe he was, at least, your friend?"

She sighs heavily, sinks a little against his leg and closes her eyes. "Perhaps. For a moment. But I could see Tom's injuries were less severe. Another officer I trust was tending to him. I did check. I did care."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

"I _did_ care," she whispers, almost petulant, but her voice is thin with tears.

"Did you tell him that?" Hardy asks, his own voice softening in response to the ache in hers.

"I tried. I hope he truly heard me."

She falls quiet a long time. "He's the one who had his arm broken trying to protect me."

"Ah. Damned well smitten then, eh?"

She doesn't reply.

He keeps a hand in her hair.

"I'm practical, Alec. I'm strong. I'm fierce when I need to be. I don't follow expectations of women, of society. In many cases I don't care how I'm seen if I believe in what I'm doing. But I have never...I have never wanted to be cold. Or unkind to those who deserve kindness. Even those who don't appear to, but ultimately need it. And I know people think otherwise of me. Sometimes. But, I don't...I'm not…" She fades out, blinks back tears. Her breathy whisper of, "...am I?" is so soft he almost thinks he imagines it.

Alec draws a heavy breath, feeling that this is a moment when he really needs to give her something to hold onto. With gentle hands, he shifts her head off his legs and slides his body down until he's lying beside her. He props his head on his hand, gazes down upon her, and rests his palm on her abdomen. Her muscles quiver at his touch. "Stella. I wouldn't be here, lying with you now, on my own bed, after all this time, if I hadn't seen the incredibly warm and caring and selflessly kind woman who lives in here." He slides his hand up to rest pointedly on her chest. "You never have to be anyone but who you are. Don't ever apologize for her. I rather like her."

"Once you're accustomed."

He gives her a soft smile. "Once I'm accustomed."

 

*****

She turns on her side and closes her eyes for a long time and she feels the distant pull of sleep but knows it won't yet come. She's still tangled somewhere inside. Alec is content to lay beside her, breathing at her pace, and she is so relieved by the comfortable silence it hurts. She is so tired of words doing nothing but filling the void. Not everyone has to know everything, has to _say_ everything. On Twitter, on Facebook, on Snapchat, on Tumblr...fuck it. Just be... _quiet_...for a moment. There's no dignity left in privacy.

When she was at university, Stella considered a life studying indigenous peoples on remote islands. Sitting for hours in nothing but silence and observation, the chatter of nature holding her aloft.

"God, Alec, they all leave such a torrent of destruction in their wakes," she says in the dimness, letting him catch up with the thoughts that have been circling in her head. "All of them. Simply by living out their nature. And it perpetuates. It's a cycle. Spector was almost certainly abused as a child. And he went on to destroy so many lives. Katie Benedetto, the 16-year-old girl, she lost her father, then became vulnerable to Spector's charms. Now she's damaged. Who knows what she will become. And Spector's children...my God. They were so very young. Watching his daughter… She adored her father. And she's old enough to understand something of what he's done. And then her mother...she tried to drown both her children. She locked them all in a car and drove into the sea. How will those children ever recover from all of this? That little girl is so clever and so kind. And her little brother… In 20 years...will we be hunting them?"

Alec draws a measured breath, hands tucked beneath his cheek as he faces her from mere inches away. "Maybe. I hope not."

"And even us, Alec. Not as violently or as cruelly, I hope, but it's there. I lost my father. It's damaged my interactions with other men. I've hurt people. I hurt Tom. I never meant to. You...your obsession with work has hurt your daughter, however much you love her. How do we stop it? What do we do?"

"We do exactly what we've been doing. We do the right thing. We learn from our mistakes and we get up and try to do better next time. We're kind, we're understanding. We listen. Try not to write people off as good or evil."

She gives a mirthless laugh. "That's what I'm always trying to explain to Jim."

"Jim?"

"Burns. Assistant Chief Constable, Police of Northern Ireland. He's the one who appointed me to head the task force. He's an old...friend might be the word. But what you're saying, it's exactly what he never understands. Dividing people into humans and monsters only perpetuates the cycle of pain."

"Tempting to do, though. In our line of work. We're exposed to the worst in people. On a level most can't process."

"We are. And it is tempting, and I know how much Jim has been through and how deeply it has affected him. But perhaps these are the times when it's most important to resist temptation."

"Probably so."

Her arm reaches out and her fingernails scratch at the seam of his slacks. "Jim used the division as an excuse...not to see the darkness in himself."

"Hunh." Alec taps his fingers on the mattress, his hand close enough to brush her elbow. "I think I'm more inclined to see more darkness in myself than there actually is."

Stella softens her voice and meets his gaze with an intentional tenderness. "I know you are."

*****

An hour passes and finds them sitting side by side, backs to the head of his bed, respective laptops on their thighs. Work never waits forever, even on a Friday night.

"What stopped us?" Alec asks, not bothering to preface his question with the train of thought that has brought him here. They are alike, this way. At least with one another.

Stella struggles to swallow the sip of her replenished tea she has just taken. "Sorry?" she manages. She returns the cup to the nightstand.

"We were together, for a while. But always just...a little bit apart. What got in our way?"

She holds his gaze for a long moment before she speaks, perhaps deciding on the degree of honesty for which he is prepared. He knows she has an answer. Stella Gibson would never let such a thing sit in her life without due analysis. At last, she says, "You were still attached. To your wife."

"We had already clearly separated. She had filed for a divorce before you and I even met."

She shakes her head. "Not relevant."

"Was bloody relevant to me."

"And what about now?" There's a little challenge in her voice. No room for misdirection.

"What about what, now?"

"Are you still...attached?"

This he can answer. Because it was messy, he knows she is right. But it isn't, anymore. "No. We gave it a go. Tried one more time. After my surgery. For the sake of Daisy. Didn't happen. We're different people, now. It's not meant to be."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "Does that scare you?"

"Pardon?"

"Does it scare you?" She furrows her brows, but doesn't reply. "You like your rooms with exit doors, Stella Gibson."

Another quiet beat stretches between them and he can almost feel the torrent of thoughts racing behind her carefully composed countenance. His heart catches in his throat when she says, "You've always scared me."

*****


	3. Chapter 3

Copyright (c) 2018

She changes into a simple over-sized button-down shirt from her bag. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, and combs out her hair. Alec offers her his bed, says he will take the couch, but as she pushes back the comforter, she reaches out blindly and catches hold of his wrist. "Stay?" she says. "I'll keep to my side."

There is a slight delay in his reply and the moment burns through her stomach like shame. Then he says simply, "All right."

He gets ready for bed himself. She lay in the dimness, the only light spilling in from the hallway. She listens to the comfortable domestic hum of water turning off and on, cabinets opening and closing. It's been a long time since she lived with anyone. Stella is mostly asleep when she feels his presence in the room. She registers the dousing of the last light. The mattress shifts with his weight. She falls into slumber to the sound of his breath.

*****

Hardy wakes at an ungodly hour after so late a night, golden sun filtering through the translucent blinds. A dull ache pulses in the muscles around his eyes and he blinks to adjust to consciousness. Stella. She is sound asleep beside him, golden hair tousled and strewn across her cheek. She rests on her side, facing him, and he notices beneath her hand a small leatherbound journal. A pen is tangled in her fingers.

Her dream journal. He doesn't know if she was able to get the original back from evidence or if this is a new one. She must have woken from a dream in the night, taken the time to record some precious impression. He wonders if she was scribbling in the dark or in the early threads of dawn. He didn't see the journal last night. It must have been in her bag. She didn't mean to stay the night anywhere when she left her house. Either she keeps a spare journal in her overnight bag, or she has taken to keeping her primary journal close to her person at all times. He can't blame her if this is the case.

Seeing her like this, breath even and peaceful, her over-sized shirt making her appear more delicate and slender than her workday attire, her make-up gone and her freckles bright in the sun...he feels deeply touched by her trust. He imagines few people have been afforded such a view of Stella Gibson. Fingers slack and sheet displaced. He deludes himself in the fuzzy early morning into thinking that rather than feeling vulnerable sleeping in his presence, she asked him to stay because she feels safer to sleep when he is close.

For long moments Alec lets his head sink back into the pillow and simply watches her. With her bruises hidden as they are, he can almost forget what has been done to her. Almost.

He wants so badly to smooth back her hair, kiss her temple. He once possessed such a right. But here and now she trusts him to keep her safe, and he intends upon doing so, even if that means protecting her from him, and from herself.

****

"I should get back," she says, dressed in the slacks and grey v-neck wrap sweater from her bag. She's nibbling a piece of toast at the kitchen counter, chewing cautiously. "I've only just returned from so long away. I have a life to catch up on."

"It's Saturday," he says. "You stay tonight, drive back down in the morning. You can catch up on things at your place on Sunday, head back to work on Monday morning."

She hesitates, swallows another bite of toast. "What about your daughter?"

"She'll sleep 'til noon, then go shopping with her friend. She'll be home later on. You can meet her."

Stella considers this, turning over the possibilities in her head as she works over the toast in her mouth. She pins him with her gaze, seeking out the slightest hesitation but finds none. She lets her lips curl into a muted smile, maybe lets it be a little bit flirty. "All right. Tonight."

He knows what door he's opening. Or at least he's willing to play. 

*****

Alec goes for a run, then comes back and takes a shower. When he emerges, Stella is sitting on his couch, sipping tea and deeply focused on her laptop. The sun has disappeared behind a heavy cover of clouds rolling in from the sea.

"Why did you have your laptop with you? If you weren't planning to stay for the night when you left your place?"

She lifts her eyebrows to him, and he realizes the question sounds a bit like an interrogation.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"I had it in my briefcase. I hadn't switched my things back to a purse since I got back to town. I tossed my briefcase into the car so I'd have my wallet."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't--"

"It's all right." Her words are easy and sincere.

He nods, then reaches for his phone and checks his messages.

She keeps watching him, and her tongue is playing with the edge of her teeth.

*****

Alec Hardy loved his wife. He found her beautiful, sexy, desirable. He never felt lacking in the years when they were good together.

But Stella Gibson...she was an experience for which he was wholly unprepared. Very little has changed since their last encounter.

Stella is almost entirely nonverbal once she transitions to touch. She communicates with her body, with gesture, breath, and directing caress. Words seem to intrude upon the world she creates.

She steps up to him now, through the grey-white light and shadow. She stands close, breasts just barely brushing his chest, breath feathering his chin. Her gaze lay heavy on his mouth. She hovers, building the tension, but asking as well, giving him time to change his mind. She doesn't realize how near impossible that would be with her standing in his space, all heavy breath and tousled hair and grace and curves that make him forget this life has been telling him he is old.

She draws careful fingers down the side of his rib cage. The sensation travels all too quickly to his groin. She smells like midnight in his apartment in West Kensington and a taste of a world he hadn't thought could be part of his own.

He is the one to lean down and capture her lips.

Their first kisses are careful. They battle for control. It's always like this with Stella. She tastes of sweet ginger and expensive wine, but power and supremacy are her sex toys. She likes to set the pace. She likes to call the shots. And he would guess that with her one or two time playthings, the rules hold at that. With him...sometimes she likes it when he flips the tables and pins her to the wall or turns her over the kitchen counter.

Today he wants to take his time.

They move into the bedroom, still touching and kissing as they walk, still focused on one another to the exclusion of all else. He closes the bedroom door, a bit of insulation in case Daisy should return home unexpectedly. They stop beside the bed and for long minutes they just enjoy kissing. It's been a long time for the two of them. Months and years melt away. Their bodies have remembered.

Stella pauses in her pursuits. She curls her fingers around his wrist, lifts his hand to her cheek. For a brief moment she leans into the cradle of his palm, then she guides his wrist to hover near her mouth. Her tongue slips out and lightly licks at his flesh. Then, she draws a breath and exhales warm air onto the thin and sensitive skin. The simple sensation sends deep shivers up his spine.

Their clothes fall away.

In London, the first two times they made love, Stella kept her skirt on, pulled off her underwear and pushed her skirt up her thighs. The third and fourth time they were beneath the covers or in the dark. Their fifth time, she let him see the scars.

They were faint, now. Many years had passed since she resorted to such tricks to survive. Time did much to heal her pain. But the scars remained. Criss-cross marks that were hard for Alec to look upon. Not because they made her any less beautiful, but because each fine white line represented a time when Stella's pain was too great to contain, too much for her to weather without distraction, without release, without pain on the surface to outshine the wounds within.

That fifth night, he kissed her scars. She looked at him like he was a wondrous and confusing curiosity and said, "No one's ever done that."

"Well, then it's high time," he said.

Today she shows no hesitation in revealing her skin. He is thirsty for every inch and soon there is nothing on her body but a a necklace and an anklet. He puts his back to the headboard, and Stella straddles his hips. The position gives her the illusion of height, and he can't help but admire how she has carefully stolen his one and only advantage.

She applies a condom snagged from her own bedside bag, and she guides him into her already wet and silken recesses. Bloody hell, she feels good. She tenses her inner muscles a couple of times, eliciting small gasps from him at the unexpected sensation, and he thinks he catches just a hint of a self-satisfied grin tickling her lips.

Slow caresses and languid exploration turn too quickly to a pressing heat. With Stella on top, he is entranced by the view. Her full breasts are close to his mouth, giving him free access to lick, kiss, taste. Her arm rests across his shoulder, other hand gripping the headboard for leverage. She increases the pace as she moves her skillful hips against his.

*****

 _Oh, God…_ She hasn't felt anything this good in...a very long time. Alec inside her, around her, soft mouth on her breasts like she is something to be treasured rather than consumed. The ache within her is strong and deep, and though she wants to make this sweet and take things slow, her hips won't be stilled and the pace is accelerating. His muscles are lean and strong under her touch, his scent clean and sharp and it reminds her of the soft places he has touched that she prefers to hide.

She can feel the coiled tension in his limbs. He has tried to savor the moments, but she can feel his barely restrained desire. He wants to grasp at her, pound into her, claim her. And she wants that as well.

Her breath is rapid and shallow as she works the muscles of her thighs and hips, rocking against him, feeling the bounce of the mattress in counterpoint to her  
rhythm. It hurts to abuse her healing stomach muscles like this, but she doesn't care. On this angle, he is right up within her, right where she most needs him to be, and she wants it harder and faster and she can't get enough.

*****

It is the moment when her pattern of breath changes that proves his undoing. The slight break in rhythm, the momentary high-pitched cry born of piercing sensation and untamed need. This flash-second's evidence he has awoken something in her that belies her facade, something that is a little wild and a little desperate. That he has touched her from the inside. It is this that brings him to the brink like nothing else.

Stella's close, he knows her body well enough to be sure. He feels it in the sting of her nails in his flesh, in the taut pitch of her breath, in the quivers in her thighs.

The certainty makes him bold. He wraps his arms fully around her body and beneath her hips and he surprises himself when he summons the agility to lift her onto his lap and tuck his legs beneath himself. He pushes up and forward and plunges them both onto the mattress, Stella flopping onto her back, caught and cushioned in his arms. His hips remain buried between her thighs. He is grateful when there's no cringe of pain from her; the last thing he wants is to hurt her. The last thing she needs is to be manhandled But the last thing she would want is for him to hold back.

Her eyes show a sultry mix of surprise and desire. She breathes for a moment, then strains her neck and lifts up to capture his mouth with her own. Alec nestles his fingers in her hair, cradling her head as he begins to move within her once again. She bites at his lip. It's not long until they regain their frantic pace, fever-pitched with desire on the precipice.

Stella's hand moves to slip down between them, and that's Stella, knowing her body, knowing what she needs to finish along with him and unashamed to take it. But he catches her fingers and gently guides her away, reaching down with his own hand and leveraging his body just enough to press his thumb to her clit. She sucks in a sharp gasp at the contact and grasps at the unyielding bedsheet. When Alec resumes the pounding of his hips in time with the stimulation from his fingers it takes no more than ten seconds before the scarlet flush rises across her breasts, her throat, her cheeks, and she is crying out on a wave of ragged pleasure that he swears could make him climax on sound alone. His own orgasm grips his body like a tidal wave and melts all conscious thought as he loses himself within her, this woman who teases his senses and touches his soul, and he surrenders to her power as he buries his face in her hair.

*****

In the breathlessness of the aftermath, there is a seriousness to her gaze, a sobriety in her wordless throaty murmurs, confessing of her recent pain-drenched days. This is a language few would understand, and the only language she will speak when it counts.

Alec holds her gaze and cradles her cheek until she knows he hears. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to her eyebrow. He lingers until he hears the slight catch in her breath. Then he pulls away, unwilling to make her cry. He falls luxuriously to the mattress and pulls her sloppily into his arms.

She settles in silence, head upon his chest. He thinks she is listening to his heart, again.

He pulls a blanket around them both.

 

*****

Daisy comes home late afternoon and Alec and Stella are sitting on the front deck taking in the sea air. Daisy seems a bit wary at first, her sharp eyes taking in her father's jacket around Stella's shoulders, but Alec takes the leap, introduces Stella as an old friend, and makes dinner for the three of them. Watching Stella almost reverently approaching his daughter, gently drawing her out and making careful inroads into the girl's trust is a fascinating pursuit.

They take a walk along the cliffs, the three of them. He feels like he has been walking along a lot of cliffs, lately. As evening fades, Stella again suggests a hotel, but Alec insists she can stay. He says "on the guest bed" just as Daisy walks through the living room, and the girl says over her shoulder, "Oh, for Christ's sake Dad, just let her sleep with you. I'm not seven." Hardy is just a little bit horrified, but Stella finds this moment so amusing he can only smile in the end.

They do actually sleep. They are both exhausted.

****

He wakes the next morning to an insistent pounding on his door.

_Oh, Jesus Christ, Miller._

Alec yanks opens the door, his hair in a mess and dressed only in the sweats and t-shirt he pulled on as he walked through the living room. "For fuck's sake, Miller, you do know it's Sunday morning?"

"Yes, I do, and I'm sorry, sir, but there's been a development in the McCauly case and I thought you'd want to know."

She stands on his front mat, small bag strapped diagonally across her body, hair wind-tossed, dressed in slacks and a windbreaker. She's painfully awake for this hour of the morning.

"Well, out with it, Miller. What's happened?"

"The boyfriend. He's changed his story. Now he's saying it was Babcock who drove them to the school that night."

"You're kidding me."

"No, sir. I've got uniforms bringing Babcock in for questioning. Thought you'd want to be present for that part."

Hardy gave a heavy sigh. He did want to be present, and he would, of course, but damn the universe.

He is contemplating what he has done to deserve this fate, and just how long the processing and red tape might take before he and Miller are actually granted the opportunity to speak to Babcock, when Ellie's gaze catches something over his shoulder and she blinks and her eyes widen.

Alec gives a brief glance in the direction of her stare, and he sees Stella, still in her nightshirt, padding across the living room. She gives a moment's gaze to the woman at the door, but moves quietly on into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize...you had company. But the car, I saw it on the drive, I thought maybe one of Daisy's friends..."

"I do have company," he confirms.

Miller is properly complacent, but she is frowning a bit. The woman can be a brilliant interrogator, but when the stakes are less than life or death, she is not known for her poker face. "Who's that, now? Do I know…?" she asks.

"She's a friend," Hardy says, keeping it firm and clear that that is all he is offering at present.

Ellie nods and accepts the line he's drawn. She goes back to telling him the details of the victim's boyfriend's new story. But she doesn't get far before her eyes light up and he can almost see the light bulb go off in her head. "Oh my God -- is that DSI Gibson? The one who's been on the news, the Belfast Strangler case? I knew I'd seen her somewhere…." Her words are blurted out all in a rush and none too quietly.

Hardy glances over his shoulder and hedges the door closed a bit more. "Could you keep your voice down a bit? Yes, Miller. That's Stella Gibson. She's an old friend."

"I had no idea you knew her. Oh, that case ended bloody awfully, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did." He gives some real weight to his words this time, and Ellie is quick to get it. She's a good partner when she wants to be. Her manner dampens, and he can see her putting it all together. If this is his friend, she's probably been through hell, and maybe that's why she's there.

Ellie stops for a breath, wrinkles her nose a little to confirm she's got it. "I'm sorry."

Alec nods, and guides her back to the topic of the case. "I'll meet you at the station in an hour," he says when he's heard enough. He closes the door without waiting for her reply.

His living room smells like coffee and Stella's shampoo.

****

He stands with her on his front drive in the slant of morning sun. She has tossed her bags into her car and left the driver's door standing open.

He gives her a look that he knows she can read. _He wishes she could stay._

Stella tilts her head and steps closer. "I have to get back. You have a case to attend to."

"I do."

"I've missed you, Alec Hardy," she says, the trace of a sweet smile twisting her mouth.

"I've missed you, as well, showing up in my life and making it unnecessarily complicated."

She laughs at that and glances down. When she looks up again there is affectionate appraisal in her gaze. "You seem good. You're more…" she touches her fingertips to the apex of his ribcage, "...solidly in yourself than I've seen you. I like it."

"Well, we did meet at possibly the lowest point of my life, so...I suppose it's all uphill from there."

She nods, accepting that.

"And what about you?" He holds her gaze for a long moment, then he carefully asks what needs to be asked. What hasn't been asked all weekend. Not in so many words. "Are you okay, Stella?" He keeps it neat and direct, but makes certain she knows the question is real. He needs the true answer, even if she is free to reply and run.

She holds his gaze, deliberate in her strength, unblinking and uncompromising. "I'm okay," she says, pronouncing the words with delicate care.

He lets that stand.

"You take care of yourself," she says. "Tell Daisy I enjoyed meeting her."

He nods. "Who knows? I might just come up to see you weekend after next, if you fancy some company. London's not so far."

She appears to consider his words quite seriously, and he would swear she is looking through glimpses of the past like picture postcards. "We made the time once, you and I. But it's been a while. And now, we always say we will. But we get caught up. We never find the time, do we?"

Hardy meets her gaze, hard and honest to a degree that surprises even him. "Perhaps it's time we made the effort, again."

Stella draws a slow breath. Her eyes hold his and he feels like she is searching his soul. "Perhaps it is."

She steps forward then and tilts her head to rest her forehead against his chest. He gathers her into his arms, and she tucks in close and buries her face in his shirt.

There is an unexpected and unprecedented level of intimacy in the moment; simple and clear, as he holds her in the morning sun, the sounds of seagulls crying in the distance. She softens to his touch and the shelter of his arms in the wind off the sea, and they are a little bit suspended in time.

Stella is the one to pull upright and away. "I have to get back," she repeats. She leans in and gives him a quick but gentle kiss.

"Safe drive," he says.

She moves back, and for the briefest moment her fingers linger in a tangle with his. She tugs a bit as she turns, reluctant to let go.

Her touch falls away.

Hardy rests his empty hands on his hips and watches her settle into the driver's seat. "I'll see you soon," he says.

"Soon." She gazes at him through the open window, hair wind-blown and eyes the color of the sea. But he can't tell if the vulnerability in her voice is sadness or hope. If she believes this is truth or facade.

She starts the car. And then she's gone.

Hardy stands on his front drive, watching the tail of Stella Gibson's car disappear into the distance, her perfume still strong on his clothes.

He wonders if Daisy would fancy a trip to the city.

*****

#


End file.
